Brett Clawson jumped off a bridge. He liked the drink, more than most and shrugged off all the trouble with a laugh like a teenager who just egged a bus.

There was plenty of trouble.

At least four DUIs and who knows what else. Last I saw him was in September in Louisville. He was making yet another attempt to stay sober - this time at the demand of the state. Failing a piss test would have meant going to jail but eating shit in front of 19 rubes at the Comedy Caravan makes the threat of jail sound like a suspension from school.

He was drinking by the second night and I know how he felt. I'd have been drinking too and I was.

Clawson was the happy kind of out-of-control drunk. Mischeivous seems to be the right word. Even sober. He'd call and tell me that he'd gone into work, punched in and walked right back out the door to fuck off all day before stopping by to punch out.

All class. Always fun, always funny.

I guess it was his birthday and he got fucked up again. He got chased at 90 mph by the cops. Stopped, ran and jumped off an overpass. Smashed his noggin on the interstate below. The coma lasted for more than two weeks until he died January 31st.

On his Myspace page he blogs about what turned out to be his last gig with Brett Erickson. He writes, "If you want to come to the show but don't have a place to stay, let me know and you can crash on my hotel floor if we actually fall asleep."

I'll make sure the band at the St. Louis date in March learns it by then, even though Clawson's Myspace says "No Cover Bands" under music interests.

Who's With Me?

I'll wait a few days before I write about other shit. I can't bring myself to do the anchorman-style..."And in other news..." bullshit.

I don't know who you have in the Superbowl but I'd bet Clawson would have been cheering for bad calls and career-ending injuries. With that laugh. A kid causing trouble. Cause some trouble today. And laugh about it.